


schlechte berührung

by pippen2112



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (too bad he'll never ask for one), Bathing/Washing, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Marking, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: “Woah, Caleb, that is some surprisingly nice ink.”He flinches at Beauregard’s voice, instantly cursing himself.Schiezze,he was so focused keeping his front covered as he stripped for the communal bath, he’d forgotten about the mark.  And now he’s bared himself, bared the damned, shining magical insignia on her shoulder.  He squeezes his eyes shut and prays to any gods who might be listening that his companions let it drop.There’s a long, low whistle behind him.  Should’ve known better than to pray.





	schlechte berührung

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place roughly during episode 9. I started it before episode 49 aired--oh was I not ready for those emotions--and does not contain spoilers.
> 
> This fic was based off the prompts "possession/marking," "bathing," and "hypnosis/mind control." If all that plus a whopping side of non-con is not up your alley, please see yourselves out.
> 
> Once again, this is fic exist thanks to the lovely folks in the CritGoals discord. Thanks y'all.

“Woah, Caleb, that is some surprisingly nice ink.”

He flinches at Beauregard’s voice, instantly cursing himself. _Schiezze,_ he was so focused keeping his front covered as he stripped for the communal bath, he’d forgotten about the mark. And now he’s bared himself, bared the damned, shining magical insignia on her shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays to any gods who might be listening that his companions let it drop.

There’s a long, low whistle behind him. Should’ve known better than to pray.

“Now, that is some fine craftsmanship,” Mollymauk says, his voice quiet and closer than Caleb expects. Caleb stays stock still, takes shallow breaths, and waits for Molly to lose interest. “Where did you get it done?”

“I don’t remember,” he says quickly, folding up his clothes around his spell books and placing them carefully out of reach of the water. When he turns to make his way over to the large heated pool, he prays the steam in the air is enough to explain his flushed skin and downturned gaze. He drops into the warm water, hunching down until his shoulders are beneath the surface and, hopefully, out of mind.

“That’s such a shame,” Jester says quickly as she settles into the pool with a contented sigh. “It is beautiful work. I mean, technically, I’m sure I could design something comparable, technically. But what you have there is already pretty great. I would love to meet the artist.”

 _Not likely._ Caleb digs his nails into his thighs, his mind humming and heavy enough to keep him from outright reacting. Commands from a lifetime ago hiss through his mind, and a part of him hates that they actually work to calm him. “Yes, well, it came to me one of those nights where there’s too much ale and too little sense.” He shrugs, not meeting any of the eyes fixed on him around the room. “At least I wasn’t robbed blind in the process.”

“Ooooh, what if the Traveler gave it to you?” Jester says, mirth lighting through her voice.

“You… you think your god gave someone a tattoo?” Fjord’s gentle skepticism.

“Why not?”

“I mean, you’ve seen what Jester does for fun,” Beauregard points out. “I wouldn’t count it out.”

“Yeah! He’s always pulling those kinds of pranks. He’s really funny. I’ll ask him the next time we talk.”

“Caleb?” At Nott’s voice, he looks up. She’s sitting on the side of the tub, still in her mini-Fjord disguise, but he can feel the warmth of her gaze regardless. “Your mark, it’s not a curse is it?”

_Crackling, searing, scorching power ripples through him. He feels wetness of his cheeks and soreness in his throat, but it's power. It will make him stronger._ **"Do as I say, and I will make you more powerful."**

He swallows hard around a cry, refuses to let it touch the air. He holds Nott’s gaze and forces a weak little grin. “No, Nott. Nothing like that.” In for a copper, in for a gold, he goes on. “It’s magical, yes, but not the harmful kind.” At least, in theory, the magic itself is not designed to harm. In practice… He suppresses a shudder.

“Oh, alright,” Nott says, reaching out and ruffling his hair.

_Warm hands ground him. Trail over every inch of him. Make him better._

Caleb huddles deeper in the water, half listening as his companions’ conversation moves on, but he starts to feel hands on his skin and words whispered in his ear, dragging him down. With a quick glance to confirm that the rest of the party is more focused on catching up with Yasha than paying him any mind, he drifts off to the side and drops to the bottom of the pool. He holds his breath and closes his eyes and waits out the wash of memories.

_His throat aches. His limbs hang at his sides. His breath comes heavily. His private sessions with Master Ikithon are always difficult, but today has been especially grueling. He searches into himself, searching for the flicker of arcane energy, but it's farther than he can reach._

_He flinches, expecting a strike, but nothing comes. He looks up cautiously. Ikithon has his hand raised, blue energy crackling on his palm, but his head is tilted just so. With a muttered word, the arcane energy dispels, and Ikithon the room to him. Heavy hands fall on his shoulders. "Tapped already?"_

_He tucks his chin to his chest, hiding his shame. "I'm sorry, Master."_

_"It's no matter. You will do better next week."_

_He nods, his throat constricted. He wants nothing more than to run back to his quarters and crawl into bed and cry. But Master Ikithon has yet to dismiss him. Tension balls between his shoulders as he waits._

_Hissed words swell around him, a language he can't understand. They skitter across his skin. For a split second, he feels numb all over before his head lists to the side._

_"There, isn't that better?" Master Ikithon whispers._

_He finds himself nodding._

_"Good. Relax, and listen to the whispers. They will make you feel good."_

_So he bows his head and listens to the hissing. Lets it fill his mind. Lets it push away his conscious thoughts._ **"Doesn't that feel better, heeding my words, doing as I say? You like this, don't you?"**

**__** _He nods. He wants to do right by his master._

_Distantly, he's aware of the room changing around him, but the warmth of his master's hands ground him. He feels himself moving, but it seems so obvious to be moving. To go where his master leads him. To drop to his knees and shiver as heat surrounds him. His master's hands trailing over every inch of him, cleaning away the muck and sludge of his failures and leaving him better._

**"You want to be good so desperately. You want to do what's right. For your master. For the Empire. For yourself. You want to listen, to do as I say, to become more powerful. If you do as I say, I can make you more powerful. Is that what you want?"**

**__** _"Please," he hears himself say._

**"Please what?"**

**__** _"Tell me how to be good. Please."_

_There's vibrations against his shoulder, and a heavy, smooth hand wraps around him. The hissing swells in his ears, and his nerves alight. Dull pressure gives way to bright, burning need. He shudders in the face of it, eyes squeezes closed, hands fisted at his sides. But he endures because his master hasn't told him he can flee it._

**"Such an eager boy. You've done so well for me. I'll give you something to make you more powerful."**

**__** _He hears himself whimper as he's pulled to his feet, every sensation still bursting beneath his skin. Cloth rasps against him. Woodgrain pressing into his cheek and chest. He pants for breath, tastes the tang of alcohol in the air, and then there's crackling energy piercing his shoulder, biting and stinging and burning._

_The hissing fills his mind, whispers promises in the dark. If he didn't feel the strain in his throat, he wouldn't know he was screaming._

His lungs ache and his eyes sting and he still feels the needling pain at his shoulder, but the sensations are fading away. The water flowing over him feels less oppressive. The words in his mind grow foggier and foggier. His cock is mercifully, blessedly soft. _Thank gods._ Blowing out the last of his air, Caleb pushes to the surface, gasping. He hadn’t thought he’d been down there so long.

“Are you alright, Caleb?” Yasha asks as he pushes his hair out of his eyes, sees her, Fjord, and Beauregard are the last ones left in the pool, lounging near the edge.

“Ja,” he says quietly, wading to the edge. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

Fjord’s brow wrinkles, and Beauregard shoots him an incredulous look, but no one says anything as he climbs out of the water and rushes off to the safety of dry land, and his books, and his grimy, worn clothes.

As he dresses, he catches a brief glimpse of the insignia in the mirror. Throat constricted, he touches the marked skin, but it feels just like the rest of him. Just as toxic. Just as foul.

_More powerful…. Right…_

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and concrit welcome! Thanks for reading!


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